


The Problem of Bodies (Part 1: Blook Acres)

by Mz_Mallow



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Biology, Canon Trans Character, Coming of Age, Family, Family Feels, Gen, Ghost Mettaton, Ghosts, Headcanon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slice of Life, Trans Mettaton, Weird Biology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 23:33:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8347099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mz_Mallow/pseuds/Mz_Mallow
Summary: Life has complications when you're incorporeal in a society full of corporeal monsters; more so when you're not quite like other ghosts. History of and stories about the Blook family; childhood and early life of Happstablook (Mettaton), Feisttablook (Mad Dummy), and Napstablook.





	1. Prologue

There is a shadowed cave, the ceiling damp and sagging with stalactites and the walls studded with fragments of crystal. Minerals catch and reflect unsteady light from dual lanterns hidden behind a time-smoothed wooden table. Behind the table there are shelves of assorted objects of glass and metal and cloth, showing scuffs and wear but all meticulously clean. Behind the table there is also a tortoise; a tortoise wearing khakis and a pith helmet. One eye is sealed shut and sunken; the other sparkles in the lantern light. He strokes his claws through his wisp of beard as he thinks.

“The history of the Blook family? You really want to know, eh? I don’t rightfully know I’m the one what should tell you. They’re private folk, ghosts.

But to be honest, ain’t many that care about the war stories anymore. And a person isn’t really gone so long as their name is remembered, that’s what I say. Okay then. But keep it to yourself maybe?

Back before The War there was a ghost who haunted Asgore’s court. They were a historian of sorts; their lineage had done the same for the royal family for time out of mind. Ghosts have long memories; I guess when your insides aren’t full of guts and muscles there’s more room to keep memories and thoughts and things. This one was called the Pensive Ghost. So this ghost haunted the court, listening, writing, keeping records of royal business, and tending the library.

When things started getting rough with the humans, a contingent of ghosts approached Asgore and proposed they could help out by spying. Not so usual for ghosts to stick out their necks for corporeal folk like that, but they must’ve sensed what was coming and known that bad times for the other monsters meant bad times for them. Among them was a young upstart by the name of Valorous; whether that was a new name they were given after all this came to pass, or whether Val was just the fighting-est bud ever to grow out their parent, I don’t rightly know.

Hold on, I better explain that ‘bud’ bit. See, ghosts make families a little different than corporeal folk…

… You know about all that already? Huhn. You must’ve gone to some kind of fancy-pants colleg. Anyhow…

Pensive and Val got to working together. They made good partners: one had experience and the other had new ideas; one had studies and the other had instincts; one had restraint and the other had zeal. They got information to the king and queen while the political situation got thornier.

When things with the humans went bad they went real bad, real fast. When the humans sacked and burned the royal library, Pensive was in it. Nobody ever saw them again after that.

Once humans got ahold of the records in the library, that’s when things got worst for the ghosts. See, ghosts are even closer to their souls and emotions than the average monster, with no solid body taking up attention. And with the way new ghosts get made, a ghost sees their broodmates, and a peacetime parent ghost and buds see each other, as just about the same person as themselves. Some human knew this. So when humans had records of ghost family relations, they hatched an evil plot to thin out the spooks that had been haunting them. They’d kill a broodmate to make a ghost despair, like they’d watched their own self getting killed. Kill one in a child generation to make a ghost in the parent generation lose hope. Or they’d leave a whole family alone but get rid of the unrelated ghosts around them, so they couldn’t make new lineages and were too heartsick to make more buds. That’s why, to this day, ghosts will call any other ghost their ‘cousin’ whether they’re broodmates or not related. Better corporeal folk just don’t know, they figure. Because of what happened with the library records, some even stick to that rule in writing. They keep the knowledge of their family relations to themselves, and keep it all in their heads… which is pretty much their whole body, so it works out all right for them.

Anyway, back to Penn and Val. Opposites attract, you know, and that goes double for ghosts. They were real cozy for a while, but then it looked like they were on the outs all of a sudden. Right after the library fell we found out the reason: they had babies inside. So there was half of what was going to be the Blook lineage, gone with Pensive.

Val was heartsick from all the fighting and the loss, and that must’ve been what caused the thing that happened: their baby budded sort of upside-right, attached on the side of its face instead of its bottom. Given a day or two, a little peace and some happy thoughts, things probably would’ve sorted out; but Val was itching to get back into the fight, they wanted revenge. Medics got afraid for the baby, with its new little soul right up next to all that anxiousness and rage, so they did an artificial abscission with magic.

The baby turned out just fine, though! They’ve got as good a soul as a ghost ever had. A little lopsided in the face, but that’s no problem, I say. Gives one a ruggedly handsome look, even.

Val went back to the battlefield, but the thrill of spying must’ve wore thin. They took to possessing bigger and bigger objects, harassing the humans and then bailing from the bodies… stacks of linens, a sawhorse, a table, an impressively sizable section of split-rail fence.

What happened in Val’s last battle… that got hushed up. And I can understand that. Better Val be remembered for all the good they did, and leave well enough alone. But us soldiers, we knew.

No pretty way to say it. Val found a human corpse on the battlefield and possessed that.

It’s enough to put a shiver in most spines, I guess. Maybe I’m thick-skinned, but I don’t get too worked up over that part. Not as if the human was using the body anymore.

Trouble was, Val used that body. They attacked human soldiers in that body, and those humans went weak from shock and terror and lost the will to fight. Val did the humans like humans had been doing the monsters, like humans had done the ghosts. In that battle they got the revenge they had been wanting. And when they got it, whatever that made them feel, they fused with that body.

They couldn’t go back to living as a ghost after that. Wasn’t even so much the body — though, uh, the human’s soul had skedaddled for good reason — heck, I heard of a ghost went corporeal inside a tree and lived a long life as a pillar of their community. It was the un-ghostly impulses they gave into that got them stuck in it, that’s what landed them outside the grace of ghost society. They became what they hated because of the way they acted on their hate of it. Damn sad story, and that’s the end of it. Val fell quick, from grief.

But remember, Val had left a baby ghost behind. Queen Toriel made sure all the monsters in the hospital made it safely to Home with the rest of us. She offered the little ghost a place in the new royal court. They had no taste for excitement, and weren’t too hot on being a scribe either, but they found a nice little niche farming Toriel’s newfound favorite food, which, like you know, is snails. They were named with a wish that monsters would be able to get back to a peaceable life, and to the traditions disrupted by the War. That would of course be your friend and mine, Stavalblook, the Staid Ghost.

So there you have the story. Keep it close to your heart. But maybe forget that I was the one that told it to you. I already have.”


	2. Life Is Good

When the last supplicant exited the royal audience room Stavalblook slipped in behind them, their form drifting soundlessly over crack-seamed, carefully-swept stone. They skirted the edge of the room to avoid the shafts of sunlight that crossed the main approach; being lit by such strong light might spoil their surprise. As they crossed one of the small pools of flowing water that edged the room they caught sight of themself, a faint shimmer of greenish-white against the purplish reflection from the walls. They made a conscious effort to make their form as opaque as possible. They were trying to be unobtrusive, not invisible; they weren’t trying to sneak up on the king and queen.

At the front of the chamber Asgore helped Toriel up from her throne with a steady hand. Finding her balance, one of her hands came to rest on the protruding swell of her belly as the other massaged her lower back. Asgore laced his fingers and drew them behind his head in a stretch; an audible pop echoed in the room. He frowned in surprise, “That’s new,” putting a hand to his own back. Toriel smiled empathetically. Then her eyes landed on Stavalblook.

“Little ghost!” she exclaimed. “Forgive me, I didn’t see you there. We were just about to break for tea. You’re welcome to join us.”

Stavalblook demurred, lowering their gaze and dipping in midair. “That’s kind, but another time, thank you. I came to make an official request. I don’t want to keep you. I’ll be brief.”

Asgore and Toriel glanced at each other. Asgore grasped his throne’s arms and lowered himself onto the seat cushion again. Toriel remained standing, one hand still pressed against her back, her expression open and expectant.

Stavalblook inhaled slowly. Face still angled towards the floor, a growing smile pinched the lower corners of their eyes. They raised their face to the royal couple. “Life is good.” Three small nubs emerged on their belly.

Asgore blinked in surprise, but answered cheerfully. “Life is good indeed!”

Stavalblook waited, turning just enough to allow their single sighted eye to take in king and queen in turn. The pause started to stretch out.

Asgore’s eyebrows drew together. “So good… that…” 

Stavalblook waited, hovering up and down in place in anticipation. Three nubs.

“… you grew another arm?”

Stavalblook laughed, and extended their arms from the usual hiding position within their form. Now their belly displayed five rounded nubs. Asgore’s expression froze in polite bewilderment.

“… Oh… I’m sorry. Here, look closer.” Stavalblook swept up to the foot of the thrones.

Close-up, it became evident that each of the first three nubs contained an interior color that showed through Stavalblook’s nacreous green tint: one was shell-interior pink, another yolk-yellow, and the third pure colloidal white. Closer; each bore a simple pattern of fine lines. Stavalblook used their arms to shift the pink nub higher in their body, cradling it close to their face. “Sweetheart, greet the king and queen,” they murmured, and turned slightly. 

With the change in orientation the abstract pattern suddenly resolved into a face: huge eyes shut tightly, a tiny mouth that frowned at the disturbance, and a central vertical mark that matched Stavalblook’s own face.

Toriel squealed and clapped a hand to her mouth, her eyes shining. “Oh! You’re going to be a mother too!”

Stavalblook beamed, ducking their head in a bashful curtsy. “Um. The way your folk say it… Yes. Well, a parent.”

Asgore laughed his seismic chuckle. “Silly me! But I thought ghosts had just one child at a time?”

Stavalblook went still in the air, staring blankly at the ground just in front of them. He would think that. That was all he knew. Now they would have to interrupt their joyous news with memories of the War.

Toriel was more perceptive about her kingdom’s citizens. “Twins are common, isn’t that right?” she broke in to cover her husband’s blunder.

Stavalblook resumed their easy floating motion. “Usually, but it depends. Having any buds takes a lot of hope. I think… living here… Everyone in Home is excited, of course, but being close to your home, watching you and feeling your joy… that must be why it happened now, and why I have three.”

“Congratulations,” Toriel said, clasping her hands and giving them a small shake like a benediction.

“So… Have you chosen names?” asked Asgore. Toriel rolled her eyes and smirked fondly at him.

“Oh, no, not yet. Ghosts don’t get their names until after abscission… um, birth. We wait for them to show personality.” Stavalblook paused, slyly proud. “But mine already appreciate music. Watch this.”

Stavalblook started singing, a lilting wordless melody. It was simple and sweet, and after a stanza or two Asgore’s sonorous bass hummed from deep in his chest, picking out a harmony. Another stanza and Toriel joined in, her hands cradling her belly. The buds shifted gently in Stavalblook’s arms, their sightless faces turned outwards. Suddenly one of them retreated into Stavalblook’s body, the force of it sending a ripple across the surface of Stavalblook’s form. Stavalblook giggled, a little embarrassed. “Well… Two of them like music.”

Toriel shifted her weight from one foot to the other, leaning on the arm of her throne. “They’re adorable. Do join us for tea. We have mint and lemon, and I believe I’ve even got a bag of aged cookies stashed away that should be ready for you.”

“Thank you… But I do have an official request. I don’t want to impose by bringing business into your home. It’s just that… Queen Toriel, it’s always been my honor to farm snails for you, and I intend to keep doing that. But here in Home… it’s getting a little… tight. Back on the other side of the cold region there’s a waterfall that flows from above-ground. Over there the soil is rich, and the air isn’t so dry, and there are green plants growing…” They took a breath and said the next bit quickly; it had clearly been rehearsed. “This is my request: to live outside the city. To have a little land set apart for a proper snail farm. To feed your growing family with the help of my growing family.” They fell off-script. “Um… and… maybe someone to help with building a house. If it’s not too inconvenient. I can… try to ask other ghosts for help, but it goes a lot quicker with help from people with… weight. And hands.”

“Sounds like a reasonable request,” said Asgore. He raised an inquiring eyebrow at Toriel.

“More than reasonable,” Toriel agreed. “Gorey, why don’t you and Stavalblook go tell the guard right away to put out the word that we’re seeking a mason? I’ll have our tea ready when you return. But…” she gave Stavalblook a stern glare, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward. “You have made another request that was completely unreasonable.” A green flush of nervousness washed through Stavalblook’s form. “… and that was to excuse yourself from joining us. You simply can’t introduce me to these little darlings and let me have one glance and then sweep them away again. We must talk babies.”

“Oh… okay. Thank you. So much.” Stavalblook bobbed a curtsy in the air and drifted towards the door.

As Asgore rose from his throne to follow, Toriel caught him by the elbow, pulling him into a kiss, and gave him a sultry half-lidded look. “Oh?” he breathed, glancing at Stavalblook’s retreating form.

“My husband is such a stud, ghosts get pregnant just by looking at him,” she whispered.

Asgore flushed deeply, expression vacillating between pleased and reproachful and pleased again. “T-tori….”

“They’re waiting.” She gave him a little push, sending him out of the room still blushing and sputtering. She left for home by the small side door.

 

* * * * *

 

>This librarby book has a chapter entitled “Ghost Sex”. Read it? Yes/No

The race of incorporeal monsters known as ghosts in the vernacular are heterogamous, utilizing asexual and environmentally-induced simultaneous hermaphroditic reproductive strategies.

>This is maybe not what you had expected. Continue reading?  
>Return book and walk away whistling / Talk nerdy to me  
>Talk nerdy

In times of safety, comfort and plentiful food a ghost’s soul can swell with hope, and pieces of the expanded soul can break away and grow new forms, becoming new individuals. These asexually-created offspring are “genetically” identical to their parent. As every soul possesses a large amount of potential, only part of which is manifested in a single lifetime, broodmates — offspring created by the same parent at the same time — can be quite distinct in appearance and personality. The typical brood size is two, but broods of one or three are possible, depending on the quality of the environment and the personality of the ghost. If good times persist a single ghost and their offspring may multiply into a large single-family colony over time. In colonial life familiarity leads to same-ness, which some ghosts find comforting and some find stifling.

Ghost gestation lasts about six weeks (for asexual offspring). During the third week incipient buds may surface or withdraw into their parent’s form. During the fifth week the buds anchor to the surface. When buds have grown to about a third the size of an adult ghost they undergo abscission, or detachment.

During extended times of scarcity, violence or other pronounced stress, ghosts become sexually fertile. They engage in courtship to find a partner whose soul is fit and distinctly different from their own; this is thought to maintain diversity — and so, adaptability — in the ghost “gene” pool. Ghost courtship primarily involves singing. While ghost culture has a strong musical component at all times, and traditional ghost music is primarily vocal, courtship songs in particular feature loud wailing and moaning.

During ghost copulation the forms of the couple become permeable and their souls intermingle. This process can take several hours. Each individual both contributes and receives soul material, and each one becomes impregnated with a single child.

Sexually-conceived buds grow close to the heart, or center of a ghost’s form, to preserve the parents’ motility. In the fifth week they surface and grow rapidly. Abscission occurs at the end of the fifth week. The ghost parents go their separate ways, each raising their own budded child; this is another way that diversity among ghosts is maintained, and chances of survival and adaptation through creativity increased.

As both offspring are created from the same pairing of souls they are “genetically” identical and are also considered broodmates, and both are given the name of the new family/genetic lineage. 

A traditional ghost name has three parts:   
\- A given name prefix, derived from an epithet, which denotes the ghost’s individuality.  
\- A patro/matronymic that denotes a ghost’s parent.  
\- A surname, shared by both broodmates (from sexual reproduction) and all of their possible subsequent asexual offspring. Each sexual reproduction event forms a new lineage of ghosts with a new surname.  
These three parts are combined into a single portmanteau-like name. The epithet is also used separately as a nickname.


	3. Abscission

Stavalblook turned their eye away from Gerson with a testy pout. “I don’t need any help. You should go.”

Gerson settled back, bracing his carapace against the wall and stretching stiffness out of his blunt legs. “Kid, you know I love ya, but I’ll be honest; I’ll be glad when you’re done with brooding.”

The ghost and the tortoise were hunkered in the shell of the newly-built house in the humid lowlands of the Waterfall district. The room held a pair of oil lamps, an icebox stocked with mealy crabapples and perfectly sour milk, and a small table stacked with pre-made ghost crabapples. The floor beneath them was bare dirt, neatly swept. Being incorporeal, ghosts needed almost nothing for physical comfort. Baby ghosts needed even less, not having aesthetic preferences. Decoration could wait; they had walls and a roof, a peaceful space free from precipitation and prying eyes.

Stavalblook had become a collective. The three buds, together fully the size of Stavalblook’s own form, gazed around the room, trying out different facial expressions. They had been jostling restlessly for hours; bits of their lower margins were fraying from Stavalblook’s side.

Stavalblook sighed and slouched. Their voice dipped and hiccoughed with the buds’ tugging. “I’m sorry. I just feel bad that you’re taking so much time away from your farm. And I don’t need help, really. Abscission isn’t like corporal birth. Nothing is going to go wrong.”

Gerson raised the eyebrow over his sighted eye and rubbed a claw against his other temple. “I hear you saying that, and I’m inclined to believe it, but then I see you giving me that cute little wink and I think, maybe you’re not telling the whole truth.”

“Oooh. That’s rich, coming from you. You never said what happened to your eye.”

“Nothing happened to my eye. It was granted an honorable discharge and went into early retirement. Anyhow, the farm will be there tomorrow. Roots aren’t ready for harvest, and the trees aren’t going to walk off, so don’t you worry about that.”

“You’re taking too much trouble for me.” Stavalblook’s words cut off as the yellow bud stretched upwards and accidentally headbutted them in the face. They extended an arm and gingerly nudged them out of the way. “Really.”

Gerson crossed his arms and leaned his head back against the wall. “Huhn, you think I’m doing it all for you? I could say I was here to honor the memory of ol’ Valorous, and that wouldn’t be a lie, but that’s not all of the truth either. I’m here for me. Seen enough monsters go out of this world; I’m not missing the chance to see some come into it.”

Stavalblook dropped their gaze to the floor, expression pained. “Oh. Well… thank you.”

They sat in silence.

The pinkish bud made a sharp pull towards the wall. Stavalblook yelped in surprise and then whimpered with pain. At the bud’s base, where it connected to Stavalblook’s side, the ectoplasm stretched to near-transparent thinness. The bud strained for a moment, then retreated, crying a thin moan of disappointment.

Stavalblook gasped in staccato climbing pitch, panic creeping into their eye.

Gerson pitched his voice low and soothing, and guffawed. “It’s about time for naming, yeah? That’s the real reason I’m here, didn’t you know? I tricked you into giving me the rights to naming your firstborn. This one’s going to be Uncle Gerson the Handsome the Second, now and forever.”

Stavalblook took a deep breath and smiled weakly. “That’s not a ghost name.”

“It’s not? You’re going to have to help me out, then. The name’s got to be some sort of description, right? Let’s keep it simple: ‘Trouble.’ Naw, that won’t work. We’d have to name them all three the same thing then.”

Stavalblook laughed, but was cut short by a sharp yank from the yellow bud. It pulled away, jerked backwards pulled by the tension in their connected base, and lunged forward again.

Gerson reached out a hurried hand and rocked backwards on the dome of his carapace. Cursing quietly, he jerked his head and arm sideways to get enough leverage to get to his feet.

Stavalblook screwed their eye shut, wincing as the yellow bud’s movements shook them and the other two buds. The pink bud, disturbed from its momentary rest, strained in the opposite direction. Stavalblook whined and Gerson’s hands rose in uncertain readiness as the buds’ movement pulled Stavalblook’s form alarmingly taunt…

The pink bud broke away, snapped-rubber-band sudden, zoomed across the floor, leaving fragments of ectoplasm in its wake, and belly-flopped into the wall with almost-flattening force.

The room went still, a fermata of anxiousness as Stavalblook and Gerson watched.

Pink backed away from the wall, dipping in mid-air in a movement like a stagger, flopped backward, and laughed — peals of laughter. Then rolled on the floor, first one way, then the other, amazed at the freedom of movement. The adults started breathing again.

Stavalblook opened their mouth to speak, but before they could form a word the yellow bud jerked, upwards this time. Stavalblook tilted backwards. Struggling upright again, they and the bud pulled at each other a few seconds before the ectoplasm connecting them snapped. The yellow ghost shot straight up without losing velocity, phasing through the ceiling and disappearing.

“Get them!” Stavalblook yelped, and Gerson was out the door, jamming his shell sharply against the narrow sides on his way out.

Yellow had come to rest on the roof of the house.

“Hey you! Down here, cutie-quiche! I’ll catch you,” Gerson called, spreading his arms in welcome.

Yellow’s gaze drifted over the yard, over Gerson, over more of the yard. Their eyes focused and they cried out. “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!”

“If it scares you so much, stop looking around and come down, ya’ bonehead!” Gerson called.

Yellow quieted and started a gradual slide down the incline of the rounded rooftop.

“There you go. Good kid. Don’t you worry, Uncle Gerson is right here.”

The ghost made a bitter face at him and phased down through the roof back into the house.

Gerson cussed good-naturedly under his breath. He re-entered the house, this time being careful to fit his shell through the door sideways.

“Apple!” Stavalblook called as soon as he appeared. Gerson reached for a ghost crabapple; his hand phased through — of course. He lumbered after Pink, who was flying surprisingly speedy circuits around the room’s interior. He tried to embrace the small form but the slippery ectoplasm escaped the corral of his claws. Blocking the path so the little ghost butted against his plastron, Gerson managed to herd Pink to the ghost fruit pile. Pink eyed a fruit; brushed against it; mouthed it; devoured it. Yellow resisted all of Gerson’s attempts at direction, but followed Pink’s lead as soon as he visibly gave up.

Gerson trudged to the icebox, removed a crabapple that was as yet only half-bruised, and sat down heavily. He bit into the apple and then gestured with it to the voracious pair of ghost children. “I got your names now. That one there: Speeds MacGee. And that one with the attitude: Toughie McForearms.” He swallowed a mouthful of apple and burped. “Oops. ‘scuse me. Guess that’s the third one’s name. Have fun spelling it.”

He looked at the white bud. They cuddled against Stavalblook’s side, calm, their eyes moving observantly but their expression neutral. The adults waited. 

The pink and yellow baby ghosts ate their fill and drifted around the room. The adults kept waiting.

Gerson rubbed his hands against each other, tentatively. “Maybe this one needs a little encouragement?” He grasped the little ghost’s sides gently. 

They made a long, muted cry. “Noooooo….”

Gerson jerked his hands away. “Are they… suppos’ to talk before they’re borned?”

“I… don’t know?”

Gerson felt a soft bump on his shell as the two young ghosts weaved their way through the air back to Stavalblook’s side. They nestled in, fitting their forms against places recently left, sleepily turning their faces inward.

Stavalblook’s own eye was closing in fatigue. They extended an arm and caressed the white bud, who yawned widely and shut its eyes.

Gerson scoffed, teasing but a little uncertainly. “What are you looking so tired for, Sir Naps-a-plenty? Napster Extraordinaire? You haven’t done anything today. That’s a lazy sort of baby that won’t even bother to get borned.”

“I don’t… think anything feels wrong.” Stavalblook’s words were starting to slur. “If it… takes much longer… ask someone in the capital? But now… could…”

“Yeah. Of course. You get some sleep. I’ll come back later and check on you all.”

Gerson turned down the lanterns and slipped out.

At some point while the family slept the white bud painlessly, unobtrusively detached from their parent’s side.

The sanguine pink child who had laughed was named “The Happy Ghost.” The yellow child’s pugnacious personality didn’t lessen a bit in the days after the abscission, and earned the name “The Feisty Ghost.” And the white bud who had been so polite about separating from their parent was never separated from the comment Gerson had made: they were called “The Napster.”


	4. Garbage

The crabapple’s surface, marred and dull, slid away into nothingness, leaving a translucent, almost gelatinous-looking duplicate. Stavalblook placed it gently into Napstablook’s waiting arms and brushed their own arms together to shake a residue of dust.

“See, it goes quick, with a little practice. Here, try this one, it’s good and fallen.” They paused, noticing Feisttablook chortling around a mouthful of ghost crabapple and spraying bits of energy onto the floor. “…HAPPY!”

Happstablook was outside Stavalblook’s field of vision, but was clearly responsible if experience meant anything. Happy, who had been hovering upside-down and pretending to chomp on the back of the adult ghost’s head, pouted outrageously, sank to the floor in a lumpy slouch, and whined, “It’s time to play!” Feisttablook gorged on the rest of the ghost apple, cheeks bulging around it, and leaned forward eagerly, waving nubby arms.

“Not until everyone has finished eating,” Stavalblook chided.

The two ghost children sent piercing looks at Napstablook. They returned the gaze with their mild, deep eyes as they picked up the apple… lifted it to their mouth… and slowly… deliberately… sipped energy from it.

Stavalblook ignored the barely-suppressed whines of their impatient children until the hollowed tangible shell of the apple collapsed in Napstablook’s arms. “Have you had enough to eat?” Napstablook made an affirmative nod and a shy smile.

“Come here, my buds. There’s one more thing to do. Then you can play.”

Stavalblook chose a clear spot in the center of the floor and lay down at its edge. “Lie down here, next to me, on your backs. No wiggling! If you keep moving around you won’t get to see the surprise.” Curiosity was a powerful motivator; after a moment of fidgeting the little ghosts settled.

“Do you remember when I told you about the city? We’ll go see it soon. There will be a lot of other monsters there, and most of them have bodies — just like Gerson has a body. A person that has a body eats food that has a body. Doesn’t that make sense? When monster food gets old it isn’t good for a person with a body to eat anymore, and that’s when we can make it into ghost food, good for people that don’t have a body.

But if there isn’t a ghost around that wants to eat that food, a monster might throw it in the garbage. They might say that the food is garbage, as if it’s something bad. But it’s not.

If a leaf of lettuce is fresh and tender, a mouse might like to eat it. If a leaf of lettuce is old and slimy, one of our snails will like to eat it. It’s the same with monsters and us.

Even if you hear somebody say that ghost food is garbage, it is still good. So after a great meal, take time to lay on the ground and feel thankful for ghost food. Think about how good it is that ghosts and monsters with bodies can live together and help each other that way. This is what my parent taught me, and now I’m teaching you. Now, hold onto that feeling… and stay still…”

As the ghost children lay still a heavy feeling of peace descended among them. A collective gasp of wonder came from the little ones as the drab walls of the house seemed to fade away into a vast spread of dark and shining space, a vista of stars. Together the family shared a vision of the universe, the minute and the cosmic in harmony, stretching away infinitely.

 

* * * * *

>This librarby book doesn’t seem to have any juicy content. Keep reading anyway? Yes, shrug/No  
> Yes, shrug

As ghosts are incorporeal, they can’t be injured by physical means, but only by magical or psychological harm. They may temporarily inhabit solid objects, but at this stage they are not affected by any harm that may come to the object (apart from psychological effects). At some point in their life a ghost feels the urge to find rest by becoming permanently corporeal. When a ghost finds a body that is suitable and appeals to them, a surge of strong emotion can allow them to become permanently fused with that body. Being corporeal brings a host of benefits, including enhanced senses; in particular, the sense of touch is weak in incorporeal ghosts. However, becoming corporeal renders the ghost susceptible to aging and physical harm.


	5. Touch

Asriel was a wonder to the young ghosts: smaller than they were, and newer, but physically so much more complicated. Clustered beside Toriel’s doily-festooned dining room table, the three broodmates hovered around him, getting as close as possible without actually touching him. They marveled over his tiny fat fingers, his thin velvety ears, and the way his body never phased through the arms of his high chair.

“Him is so cute,” Napstablook sighed.

“He is so cute. Or you could say, Asriel is so cute,” Stavalblook corrected.

“And they have lots of names, just like me,” Napstablook chirped, tickled. 

Stavalblook decided it wasn’t the time to repeat that particular sociology and grammar lesson; Toriel was returning from the kitchen, bearing a plate of fat golden biscuits. She set it on a woven-rag placemat and pointed, her gesture excluding a couple of biscuits shining with fresh melted butter and indicating a half-dozen that were dulled and shrunken.

“These are yours. I baked them a week ago so they should be ready by now. The kettle’s on; it will just take a few minutes for the water to boil.”

At the sight of his mother Asriel mewled and held out his arms. Toriel pulled him out of the chair, balancing him comfortably on her hip, and headed back down the hallway to the kitchen. The young ghosts followed behind her like a row of ducklings.

“Let Toriel be, she has things to do,” Stavalblook called after them.

“It’s all right,” answered Toriel, directing a benevolent smile at her train. “Have you little monsters ever seen a kitchen before?” Stavalblook let them go and turned to rendering the stale biscuits into ghost food.

As Toriel and the ghost children filed into the kitchen she pointed at the stovetop, where her cheerfully-red enameled kettle sat over a small flame. “That is the stove, for making food hot. Underneath is the stove, for baking. It is very dangerous. Do not go near.”

She started at one end of the room. “This is a refrigerator, an electric icebox,” she said, opening the door. “What’s this inside? It’s a box of delicious snails! Who gave me this nice gift?” The little ghosts fluttered. “Yes, you did!”

She crossed to the far end of the room; turning on the sink’s spigot, pointing out the pipes under the cabinet, sliding open the drawers to explain the use of each utensil. The ghosts exclaimed over every new tool and ingredient. Asriel burbled contentedly against her shoulder. 

As she launched into an extensive presentation on the properties of different kinds of flours, Happstablook’s attention wandered. The flame on the stovetop was beautiful; like the flame in the lantern at home, but bigger and brighter. Happy loved taking off the glass cover to run an arm through the flame, feeling the heat of the oxidizing oil. Waiting until Toriel turned to rummage in another drawer for her gingerbread-monster cookie cutters, Happy darted behind her back to touch the flame.

The kitchen erupted. 

Napstablook and Feisttablook cried out. Asriel screamed. Toriel startled, jabbed her finger on the drawer’s track, and let out the kindest of expletives heard in the Underground. None of them knew why, only that someone else had shouted first.

Happstablook reeled back from the stove, shrieking in the desperate bone-scraping pitch of failing brakes, and hurtled across the kitchen in an attempt to escape whatever had suddenly gone so thought-stoppingly wrong.

Stavalblook flew down the hall and into the kitchen at the sound. Toriel caught and thrust Happstablook with her free arm towards Stavalblook. They started cooing comfortingly, but when they saw the spot where Happy’s arm had touched the flame and withdrawn, blushing maroon and leaking ectoplasm, they froze and went silent. Toriel assessed their helplessness in an instant and lowered Asriel into the sink.

“Hold him,” she commanded, one hand supporting her baby and the other waving the adult ghost towards her.

Stavalblook’s sight flicked to her, stiffly, delayed, as if moving their eye took great effort.

“Hold him!” she commanded. Consciousness flooded back into their expression, and Staid flew to the sink to cradle Asriel against their belly.

Toriel embraced Happy close to her chest to keep the panicked little ghost from flying away. Covering the injury with her palm, she paced the floor, more to calm her own nerves than Happy’s. Faint, cool violet light emanated from underneath her hand; the angry dark color streaking Happy’s side began to recede. Happstablook’s scream broke into sobs, bulbous tears welling and spilling, soaking into Toriel’s arm and shirt.

Asriel had stopped crying as well. The adult ghost’s arm was in his mouth and his cheek rested against their belly. The gelatinous slightly-clammy sensation was completely novel, and he gummed at them with intense concentration. Hunched on the countertop, Stavalblook gestured to their other two children. Feisttablook and Napstablook edged over, mollified that the screaming had ended but still bewildered.

After a minute Toriel peeked under her hand. “You’re going to be all right. There, there. Are you still in pain?” Happstablook only shivered in response. She brushed away tears.

“Little incorporeal one, have you… ever been hurt before? Poor child. What a terrible thing to feel. But it’s over now, and you were very brave.” She released Happstablook, who drifted over to the other ghosts.

“It’s my fault,” Stavablook’s voice came, timidly, from under the pile of children that the sink had become. “I taught them to be careful about magic, but I should have explained better that magical fire isn’t the same as physical fire, that it can burn us.”

“Yes, well, it’s over and done now.” Toriel rubbed absentmindedly at the side of her hand.

The kettle’s whistle finally went off, making them all jump. Toriel lifted it, poured the boiling water into a waiting teapot, and extinguished the flame by closing her fist.

“We’ll… be going now…” ventured Stavalblook.

“And let that be the memory you leave my house with? Fluff and stuff. I won’t have it.” Toriel scratched at her hand in earnest and winced; the acidic ghost tears were irritating her skin. “I’m terribly sorry. Excuse me. I need the tap.” She reached into the sink for Asriel with her uninjured hand. Stavalblook caught her intent and handed him off to her, then pulling Happstablook out of the way. Napstablook and Feisttablook, still pale and limp with young ghosts’ instinctive startle reflex, bounced off of her gentle reach and went rolling across the kitchen floor like soap bubbles.

Her expression relaxed as the cool water relieved the burning in her hand. Grasping for a towel at the front of the sink and finding it crumpled on the floor, she fished a fresh towel out of a drawer and swabbed it at her damp arm and shirtfront with more vigor than was strictly necessary. “A nice tea party is just what we all need.” Catching a tentative nod of assent from Stavalblook she bustled down the hall with Asriel to get dry clothes.

The tea party was almost as pleasant as Toriel had promised. Happstablook still a bit shaken at first, withdrawn, but soon rebounded and became even more warmly talkative than usual. Napstablook acted as if they had completely forgotten the ordeal; maybe they had. Only Feisttablook was unusually quiet.

After a pleasant hour they gave Toriel their thanks and good-byes; the little ghosts solemnly gave their word that if they met the king on the way back home they would bear her official message to him: Be Good. An aerial shortcut took them straight over the subburbs of Home, and they reached the snowy regions in a short time. They flew over snowdrifts in comfortable silence. Stavalblook mentally planned the next rotation of farm maintenance chores. Nastablook fixated on the way shifting in and out of visibility changed their shadow on the snow. Feisttablook edged up beside Happstablook.

“Hey. What… What did it feel like?”

Happstablook glowered, memory ricocheting to the nervous-system-stalling pain of the magic burn.

“The most worst thing you can imagine, times a million. What do you think?”

“No, not that. I mean… Queen Toriel, when she touched you. With a body. What is that like? A person with a body?”

Happstablook’s mind floundered in the memory of the injury; ectoplasmic synapses tingled with an odd and rising desire to make someone else feel pain.

“I won’t tell you. She only touched me for one reason anyway. We should get someone to hurt you with magic, how about that?”

With a raw, growling whine of frustration, Feisttablook rammed Happstablook into a snowbank. Happstablook yelped, more out of surprise than anything else. The sounds caught Stavalblook’s attention; they turned back.

Half-sunk into the snowbank, Happstablook caught Feisttablook’s eye; for a moment Feist looked as shocked as Happy felt. But at the sight of Stavalblook’s approach, Feist’s thoughts filled with the memory of seeing Asriel’s soft, solid little head resting against them and his hand gripping at their side. Feist lunged at Stavalblook, manifesting a half-formed series of ectoplasmic echoes, a tactile afterimage that collapsed on impact and added force to the assault, pushing Stavalblook’s friction-less form back several body lengths.

Stavalblook stood still and wordless; Feist panted at them, manifesting a violent yellow color.

Stavalblook spoke steadily. “We do not attack family. We do not do things to hurt ourselves. You know the way back to the farm from here. Go. Go to the east pen. Muck out the slime. When you’ve done that you can be a part of family again.”

Stavalblook turned deliberately and continued down the path.

“Hey! Hey! Hey! That’s not fair!” Feist screamed after them. Stavalblook took no notice.

The other two ghost children followed their lead. Feist followed, speeded up, and hooked around onto the path in front of them. Stavalblook looked blankly through Feist and detoured around the angry little ghost. The two others followed suit. Feist trailed behind, fuming.

Happstablook caught up with Stavalblook, who appeared to have become reabsorbed in planning. The vicious feeling hadn’t subsided; seeing Feist punished had only created a queasy but irresistible perspective, a buzzing rush of something new and addictive: power.

“It’s kind of nice without Feist around, isn’t it?” Happy said to Staid, with feigned nonchalance and deliberate projection.

Feist growled incoherently and rushed ahead of them all, disappearing in the direction of the farm.

Stavalblook turned their eye on Happstablook with simple, deep disappointment. “You too. East pen. Just, go.” And with that Happstablook became practically invisible. Drawing attention was addictive. Losing attention was intolerable. Happstablook trailed the two of them, singing an intrusive melody off-key, until Napstablook’s eyes filled with tears. Stavalblook comforted them, keeping their back turned to Happstablook. “My sweet bud, don’t be sad. Our other-selves will be back very soon. Here, come with me, we don’t need to hurry. Do you want to go look at the pretty blue flowers?”

A child’s temptation to keep testing their will again their parent’s is strong, but fundamentally Happstablook realized it was a losing battle, and broke away for Blook Acres.

Feisttablook, floating at the corner of the east pen and staring listlessly into it, flushed yellow when Happstablook rushed into sight in a gale of annoyance and frustration. “This is your fault! Your fault! Your fault!”

Happy ignored Feist. Here was the leverage and the satisfaction missing from the battle of wills against Staid, and a chance to practice the new realization: ignoring someone could hurt deeper than attacking them. But after Feisttablook’s invective trailed off into silent tears, and the snail pen sat in front of them wide and messy and accusatory, the struggle lost its fun. Happstablook dragged over a bucket, its metal side squealing unpleasantly against stones in the soil, and began working. After a few final sniffles Feisttablook pulled over a second bucket and dug into the mucky work with typical fierce enthusiasm.

The other two ghosts returned not long after, disappearing into the house with only a brief glance from Stavalblook.

Happstablook and Feisttablook kept working, the tension and resentment leaching out of them as fatigue set in. Finally they had the pen in passably good order. They cleaned off by phasing through the grime clinging to them and approached the house. They didn’t dare phase through the wall as they usually would have done, but opened the door and hesitated on the threshold like guests.

Napstablook was already asleep, murmuring fitfully against Stavalblook’s side. Stavalblook extended an arm in invitation. The two other ghost children crowded in, and together the family fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.


	6. Tem Village

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a chapter of fluff -- I got sidetracked writing a side story for this series, which is also posted -- the next two chapters are when things will start to happen.

A few days passed, and the drama of the visit and its aftermath receded under the routine of mucking the snail pens from the previous season of feeding and breeding. Stavalblook took Happstabook aside with a furtive, excited look. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a while, but I can’t do it myself. You’re the only one of us who can do it just right. Will you help me?” Happstablook held his head high and blushed rose with pride.

* * * 

Gerson, on hands and knees in his vegetable garden, looked up from his work, shaking the dirt off a gnarled white carrot. “You sent them where now?”

Staid hovered beside the growing pile of root vegetables. “Tem Village. I’ve wanted to visit myself ever since we moved out here, but it seems Tems don’t consider disfiguring facial wounds to be cute. Go figure.”

“Yeah, no accounting for taste. They ain’t too charmed by carapace either. You’re sure that… ectoplasm… erm, fits that Tem aesthetic?”

“Ghosts are very cute.”

“Nothin’ cuter. Still…”

Staid huffed in annoyance. “It’s the best I could come up with. Happy’s gotten too charming for their own good, and do they ever know it. I’m getting kind of tired of being the only target for their schmoozing. If any of us ghosts can impress the Tems, they can, for sure.” 

Gerson thwapped a handful of carrots against the ground to loosen the dirt. “Yup. If not… it’s a rough lesson, but one they’re going to learn sooner or later.”

* * *

Dozens of pairs of jittering, ogling eyes followed the two young ghosts as they crossed Tem Village’s central square. Feist couldn’t help looking around nervously. It was hard to read whether the Tem’s expressions held curiosity or hostility because of the unfamiliar twitchy way their faces moved. Happy was acting weird, too; coyly avoiding eye contact, curtseying away from anything solid as if the rocks might hurl accusations of being presumptuous for taking up space… acting, Feist thought, something like Napstablook might. Very weird.

Only the Tem behind the counter seemed to welcome them without reservation. She tossed her ears in excitement at the new customers and drummed her softly furred toes on the cardboard box counter. “Ya ya! Welcome to Tem shop.”

Happy hefted a purse and emptied it onto the shop counter, a pile of gold. The Tem’s eyes sparkled at the metallic shine.

Happy held arm to mouth delicately, like a kitten licking a paw, exaggerating a careful choice, and fluttered eyes at the shopkeeper. “That little fuzzy sock there. If you would. Pwease.”

A soft purr of vibration sounded from inside the Tem’s throat. Her eyes hovered over the gold. Her eyes hovered over the faces of the two ghosts. Her eyes left her face entirely and hovered somewhere among the shelving. “Ya ya!” she repeated, squirreling it away before the customer could reconsider their offer.

Sock-enriched, they floated back the way they had come. Trailing just behind Happy, Feist bit back annoyance: the purchase had been made at Staid’s request, so Happy has said, but if it really had a practical purpose this was some unfamiliar level of heliciculture witchery.

Happy slowed, paused… then wheeled around and called, “Hey, catch.”

Taken by surprise, Feist extended pudgy arms and danced back a step as sock met head, stuck and hung there, straggling over one eye. 

The impact of cloth was a surprise; the sight of Happy’s gloating face was a concussion of shock. Happy hadn’t been cruel since the fight in the snow bank, but now… in front of everyone… Tears welled in Feist’s eyes; anger sparked, swelled, raced towards breaking point…

A Tem flopped onto her back beside the pair, eyes rolling. “Sad ghost… cute… Temmie ded.” 

Tems swarmed on the pair of ghosts; they were engulfed in squeals and coos.

“Naughty! So naughty!” they scolded Happy, who dodged their playful cuffs and pulled faces at them, laughing.

Tems patted Feist’s head and back with their small soft paws, picking up the sock and dropping it onto them again in an experiment to find the very cutest placement. One Tem smudged away the tears with her paw; she drew it back, shaking it at the itch of acid, and licked it clean… only to stick out her tongue, eyes protruding. “Wort idt!” she announced.

When the chick-yellow ghost reacted with a shy smile and pleased sniffles – how cute! – the Tem’s pets graduated to full-out glomps, which devolved into an impromptu contest to see who could squeeze this round boneless creature the tightest. Somewhat overwhelmed by the intensity of the Tem’s physical enthusiasm, Feist manifested a battle array of tiny ectoplasmic copies, eliciting a new wave of squees and death-by-feels from the Tems.

It was a good long while before the Tem’s spans of attentions reached an end and they wandered off.

The ghost siblings returned home in triumph, overflowing with the story. Napstablook paled at the description of the Tems, their eyes widening in admiration of the social boldness of their siblings. Staid listened with interest and praise and satisfaction, then again with supportiveness, then again and again with the endurance of all parents. And when the ghost children had exhausted the story and themselves and gone to sleep, Staid took the little empty purse with chagrin and spent the next hour trying to re-balance the family’s budget.


	7. Spirits

Gerson kicked snow off his feet against the threshold, the three little ghosts hovering behind to make sure he didn’t overbalance himself and stumble, and they entered Grillby’s Bar together. The name was aspirational; the space was a converted half-apartment in a multi-residence structure that was one of the first buildings to go up in recently-named Snowdin town. It was furnished with mismatched secondhand chairs and tables, cramped in a way that made one wonder uneasily about fire code (or would have, had the proprietor not been fire himself and so an authority on such matters.) It was hardly pretty, but it was warm and welcoming. Wooden signs hung on the wall, words charred in fastidious cursive script: “Relax. Drink. Behave.” The four threaded their way around tables and chairs to where Grillby stood behind the bar — actually a table laid across two barrels, with a motley assortment of bottles on bookshelves behind. “Spirits for the spirits,” Gerson sang, “on my tab.”

Grillby’s glance took in the three wide-eyed and eager faces, swept over the room’s few drowsy afternoon patrons, and came to rest on Gerson. Somewhere in the flame there was a raised eyebrow.

“They won’t make a commotion. Right kiddos? We talked about what happened last time. They’ll take that zip and play outside. Come on, they deserve a treat.”

Grillby shrugged. He laid out three miniscule cups of translucent porcelain and one standard-size glass. The three tiny cups he filled to the brim with a young, strong liquor. Ghosts lacked sensitivity of smell to appreciate subtle nuances of taste, and the higher the content of fermented energy, the more could be converted into edible ghost food. Into the glass he poured a couple fingers’ worth from a dusty, smoky-colored bottle.

The three little ghosts lined up neatly and, bypassing any attempt to lift the delicate cups with their blunt limbs, floated their faces level with the bar top and put their lips to the brims of the cups.

Gerson sniffed at his glass, sipped, and nodded. “Good stuff. You’ve had the skill since day one — don’t be modest — but now it’s aged enough to do you justice. Looks like everyone knows it too — houses springing up like fungus around here. Sure they might say it’s for the local culture, but you and I know it’s you who’s the original damn institution in this town, hah!” He glanced at the ghost children. “Uh, darn institution.”

The little ghosts weren’t paying any attention to the adults. They drained the cups of fermented energy, sucking out the alcohol itself to leave a residue of sugary water. Happstablook and Feisttablook finished quickly and waited politely, suppressing giggles as the concentrated energy hit them. Finally Napstablook pulled back with a blissful smile.

“Shoo,” Grillby said at them, voice stern but with a hint of amusement. They zoomed out into the yard.

Grillby’s gaze lingered on the door as he picked up the smoky bottle again and moved it towards Gerson’s glass. Gerson covered the glass with a hand. “Goddamn Grillby, can’t say I’m not appreciative, but you do remember it’s not me who gets the get-up-and-go from the stuff? I’ve got to get them home, eventually.”

Grillby’s gaze remained fixed in the middle distance. “Sad,” he crackled.

“Huh? What’s sad?”

“Ghosts with unfinished business.”

Gerson inclined his head in a question and waited for the laconic flame to elaborate.

“Because of the War,” Grillby said.

Gerson nodded. There had been a time when “because of the War” meant something personal and experiential to almost every individual Underground. As years went by their numbers thinned. Eventually only Grillby, Asgore and Toriel would be left.

“We… saw a lot,” Grillby said. “But, we’re still here. Time passes. We heal. We find ways. Valorous never got a chance.” He produced a cloth from behind the bar and swiped it across the counter, swabbing at imagined spills. “Most monsters, there’s a break. Flesh, egg, earth. For ghosts, soul grows next to soul. The new generation is the old generation.”

Gerson took a swig from his glass. “Yeah. I’ve tried to talk to Staid about what they saw. Maybe even things they remember that they didn’t see. They won’t have it, though. Poor kid must be carrying something, but it’s buried deep. The little ones are all right, though.”

Grillby’s voice was barely audible. “You know better. The Napster’s short-term memory is shot. Sleeps odd hours, balks at people. Feist’s got that rage.”

“Happy is… uh… Cheerful.”

Grillby nudged the smoky-colored bottle along the counter, watching the reflected glow of his finger on the glass. “Happy makes others happy. Not the same.”

Gerson swirled the dregs of his drink in the bottom of his glass, staring into it. “I getcha. They weren’t there, they don’t e’en know what’s hurting ‘em, but it’s in ‘em all the same.” He threw back the last of his drink. “So… what then?”

Grillby picked up each of the three porcelain cups, turning each over in his hands before nesting them into a stack. “You help. Do what you do.”

Gerson nudged his glass across the counter with one claw. “Yeah. Okay.” He squared his shoulders. “The stars are aligned and ol’ Gerson is right where he needs t’be!” He pushed the glass forward, slouched, and rubbed at his eye. “Maybe I will take another pour.”

* * *

A few houses down the road, the ghost trio was stopped short by the passage of a pack of adolescent puppies. The dogs ranged from one side of the road to the other, laughing and growling and playfully shoving, wrestling a red rubber ball between them.

Napstablook moaned anxiously at the commotion and went a little transparent. Happstablook drifted forward, mesmerized.

Feist started back up the road with a sour look. “Hello? River… races… anyone remember?” Napster floated to join Feist with a nervous backwards glance.

“You go on without me,” Happy said distantly.

Feist frowned, and the two continued.

After a few houses they passed a secondhand clothing shop, racks and stacks of clothes arrayed in the open air, a wooden platform and tarps providing a barrier from the muddy street and gutters. Feist slowed, entranced by the pop of colors and textures, and drifted towards it. Napstablook followed close behind their sibling.

Nearing the display tables Feist manifested a blob of ectoplasm and used it to lift a straw hat; it wobbled over to settle on Napstablook’s head. Feist bobbed in pleasure at the sight of the wide brim intersecting a ghost’s vertical posture, the straw-color that looked dull beige against the red and blue felt of other hats shifting to gold when contrasted against ghostly white. 

Napstablook’s eyes trembled. “… this game is weird…” they moaned, and phased out of the hat. Feist lunged forward and caught it just before it hit the ground.

The sudden motion of the falling hat caught the shopkeeper’s attention. She lowered a book and stood, long rabbit ears perking forward. “Be careful now,” she chided. “Can I help you?”

“Just looking,” Feist croaked. Satisfied with the answer, thinking ghost children had no money to buy clothes and no bodies to put clothes on, the shopkeeper nodded, sat back down, and was instantly absorbed in her book again.

Feist lifted a knitted cap now, palpating the fabric with zeal. Napstablook shivered away. “I thought we were going to the river…” they mumbled.

“Later. I want to look around here first,” Feist answered, and turned to the racks of clothes on hangers. Napstablook waited another moment and then started up the road. When they saw that Feist wasn’t following — and didn’t even seem to have noticed they were gone — they moaned softly to themself and continued up the path alone.

Less than a minute had gone by when Napstablook was arrested by a sound; a beautiful, resonant, percussive sound. Looking for the source, they saw a house just on the corner of a sidepath — a door had just opened, a long-legged ambulatory rock entering. The door shut behind the rock with a satisfying thud and click — a knock on that door had been the source of the musical sound.

Napstablook took up a stick from the side of the road and hesitantly, meter by meter, approached the door. They raised the stick and rapped against the door. That resonance! The mellow beat of it rolled through their ectoplasm. Napstablook brought stick to door again, then again and again…

The door jarred open, and the rock stared out. “It’s a stick. A levitating stick,” they called back into the interior of the house. “Stick,” they addressed what they found on the doorstep, “Do you need assistance?” Silence. “If you are here to take a poll, the resident asks you to return another time.”

The stick slowly backed away, hanging in the air and weaving side-to-side.

“Wrong house? Oh dear. Well, good luck in finding your destination. Good day.” The door closed with that same charming thud.

Napstablook dropped the stick and popped back into visibility. There were too many people here, way too many. They wheeled around and made a beeline back to Blook Acres.

* * *

Without Napstablook to provide a convenient lackey, Feist discreetly hovered around to the off-platform side of a row of clothes, so that the shopkeeper was out of sight, and manifested an ectoplasmic copy. The duplicate form was small, but the stocking cap didn’t lay over it too deeply. There… it looked adorable. The next copy got peg-like arms and a floral scarf as a wraparound. The next was molded with an indentation at the neck so it could wear a striped shirt. Feist’s concentration deepened; producing and holding unique shapes, and for more and more duplicates, was an intense psychological exercise.

Soon a small parade of dressed ghost duplicates had taken shape. Feist backed up, admiring the work, and was distracted by a flash of color.

A red silk sleeveless blouse hung, alone, on display just at the end of the next rack over. Its sumptuous surface drank in the light and reflected it in rich depth of color; it almost looked as smooth as ectoplasm. Feist glanced around the row of clothes — the shopkeeper was still engrossed in her book — and shimmied into the shirt, extending arms to hold it up.

There was a mirror set up at the far corner of the platform. The perspective was awkward; Feist inched forward, throwing another surreptitious glance at the distracted shopkeeper, and rose into the mirror’s line of sight.

The effect stunned Feist: the contrast of blood red against flower-petal-yellow, the harmony of silk and iridescent ectoplasm, and most of all, the illusion of a solid body under the fabric.

A shout broke the spell. “What are you doing?” The shopkeeper was on her feet.

Feist’s concentration shattered. The silk slipped off and fluttered onto the wooden flooring. There was a concerted “fwump” as the manifested duplicates vanished and the clothes they had been wearing fell into the mud.

“Hey!” the shopkeeper screamed, inarticulate, as her hand jerked at the soiled merchandise.

Feist could scream louder.

* * *

Happy trailed after the dogs, observing, analyzing, memorizing. The subcultures of the races of corporeal monster were an endless source of variation, and Happy had been fascinated ever since meeting Toriel and Asriel. Gerson didn’t quite count; his comfortable presence was so familiar that he occupied somewhat the same space in Happy’s mind as the houses. Dog society was particularly challenging to understand: it looked complex and chaotic, with its jockeying for social position. The dogs’ momentary displays of dominance and submission fitted together into larger patterns, seemingly ironclad at any given moment but always subject to change. It was so different from the strictly-maintained egalitarianism of ghost society.

One of the dogs raised his broad-skulled head towards Happy. The boisterous pack calmed and watched as he stepped forward stiff-legged, nose twitching as he caught the unfamiliar scent of ectoplasm. “What’re you watching us for?” he barked.

Happy had hoped and planned for this. Don’t make eye contact; that’s a challenge. Don’t drop your eyes; that’s submission. A casual, neutral side glance, and… “You’re having so much fun with that ball that belongs to you. I love throwing a ball, but I can never find anyone to fetch it for me.”

A half-dozen eagerly wagging tails surrounded Happy.

The game went as well as hoped. Suppressing the defensive reflex of letting projectiles phase through ectoplasm took concentration, but Happy managed to catch the ball consistently when it was returned. It was a difficult to get a good wind-up without mass, especially without Feist’s natural talent for ectoplasmic projection, but throwing the ball worked out well enough too. With six worked-up pups fighting for it, the ball traveled farther from accidental hits by noses and paws than it did from throws anyway.

The ball traveled from mouth to mouth in a chaotic series of steals and rolled into a slushy gutter, followed by five scuffling bodies. The stocky leader held back, panting, and shook the dampness and snow from his clothes and fur. “Guys. Guys! Give her the ball already.”

Now, this was interesting.

There was no concept of gender on Blook Acres, populated as it was by agender, sexless ranchers of hermaphroditic livestock. Boss Monsters had made for a simple introduction to the concept for the little ghosts, as distinctly different as Toriel and Asgore looked and sounded and presented themselves. There had been some awkward questions — No, “child” is not the third gender of Boss Monster. No, “When will you get hairy?” is not a polite question to ask, and Asriel is at least a year away from being able to understand any of those words anyway — but in the end they had used the new pronouns fluently enough. Other monster races added complications. Moldsmal used at least six sets of pronouns among themselves, governed by factors invisible to non-moldsmal that shifted over time, so Happy had given up and used the monster-universal fallback “they,” which didn’t seem to bother the moldsmal at all. Dogs seemed to be more similar to ghosts than Boss Monsters in the sense that they started out round and adorable and grew larger and longer and slightly less adorable with adulthood, but didn’t develop conspicuous secondary sex characteristics like Asgore’s beard and horns… but dogs did have male and female like Boss Monsters, and expected to hear correct pronouns. At first Happy had thought that they differentiated only through their sense of smell, which was dull in ghosts, but had, after careful study, been able to pick up on cues. 

Happy had thought all the dogs in this pack were boys, but apparently that had been a mistake. Scrutinizing each of the dogs again, Happy tried to figure out which one was a girl.

Wham! The ball hit broadside with stunning force, slamming Happy into a snow-covered bush. Ball, snow, and ghost fell together to the foot of the bush and lay still.

The dogs yelped, voices approaching. “Shit, dude! You hit her really hard.”

“I didn’t mean to! It was an accident.”

“You’re gonna be in troubllllle!”

There was a sound of crunching snow, followed by a wet nose frantically snuffling at Happy’s face. “Hey ghost-girl. Nice ghost. Please don’t be dead.”

Happy rolled over, arm raised to fend off the terrier’s nose, and half-rose. “I’m okay. I’m not hurt at all. I just got surprised.” Realization welled, with an uncomfortable squeezing sort of feeling. “I’m not a girl.”

“Oh. Sorry, dude,” said the domineering boxer casually.

Happy’s continued incredulous expression must have looked to the dogs like a rejection of the apology. One of the boxer’s ears twitched backwards. A lanky sighthound-type thrust his muzzle forward. “It was just a mistake, okay? You’re pretty for a boy.”

Outwardly, Happy reacted automatically, conditioned to traditional ghost social defensive tactics. A mild, blank expression. “Oh… sorry.” Inwardly, something completely unexpected was happening. A bolt of euphoria struck against the boundaries of Happy’s soul, ricocheting, leaving afterimages of elation. It was as if a collection of meaningless lines had rotated slightly, shifting out of forced perspective until it revealed a familiar face.

If some change in Happy’s expression hinted at what was happening internally, the dogs didn’t notice. The wiry little terrier was snickering. “Yeah, some boys are just pretty. And fluffy. And bad at fetch.” A diminutive Pomeranian-type, one they called Lesser, bared his teeth and snarled at him, and the two of them collapsed into a play-fight. The rest of the dogs circled around, baying encouragements, and joined in one by one.

Happy hovered at the sideline for a minute before yelling, loudly, deeply, a crow of pure joy; and he threw himself into the pile-up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Mad Dummy’s association with clothing is in game canon: battle text includes “I'll stand in the window of a fancy store! THEN EVERYTHING I WANT WILL BE MINE!” and “Smells like a clothing store.”  
> \- The Thundersnail in-game is referred to as “she”, but all pulmonate (having lungs) species of land snail, including all edible species of snail, are hermaphroditic.  
> \- Game canon is that monster food never spoils. However, the monster who is mystified by the idea of spoiled food is in a bar, and alcoholic drinks contain sugars that have been fermented -- essentially, spoiled.
> 
> One more chapter forthcoming, to wrap up this first of three (?) planned parts.


	8. Reputation

Inside the little blue house, in the darkness, Stavalblook sensed an intruding wraithlike presence and woke with a start. The mystery presence touched them, gently, and they settled: it was Napstablook. “I’m sorry…” Staid murmured. “I didn’t mean to sleep this long. Did you have a good time in town?” Napstablook leaned against them silently.

Rising into full consciousness, Staid realized that they didn’t feel the saturated dullness of oversleep, but the gritty ache of being woke too early. “Why are you back so soon? Is everything all right?”

The other ghost’s presence resonated with unsaid words. “…”

“Napstablook… Where are the others?”

 

* * *

Gerson slouched comfortably against the bar. His intact eye squinted, the upper eyelid weighted by the effects of good booze and the lower lifted by a widening of his ever-present grin, until both of his eyes looked about the same.

Grillby stopped mid-pause and lifted his head sharply. “Hear that?”

“Hmmm?”

Grillby’s head cocked, listening. “… Your name?”

“I didn’t hear nothin’. A’course, the ears ain’t what they once was. I’ll tell ya something: I know this growin’ old business sounds all exciting and glamorous, but don’t buy it.”

The sound came again; closer. Unmistakably Gerson’s name. Unmistakably the piercing, uncanny howl of a ghost seeking vengeance. 

Gerson’s eye popped open, round as the mouth of the glass in his hand. “The babbies!” His skinny neck swiveled his head back and forth, looking up and down the bar as if he had forgotten ushering them out the door an hour prior. Then his expression settled and took on the devil-may-care stoicism of a man facing immediate and well-deserved justice. He gripped the edge of the bar and eased down out of the chair.

Gerson threw a wobbly salute at Grillby. “Been a pleasure knowing you.”

Grillby returned the salute, crisply, with affectionate warmth. “Get out of my bar.”

Staid was upon Gerson as soon as he closed the door. “WHERE ARE THEY?” Their voice was like the roar of the waterfall sluicing off into the abyss; their eye had gone cavernously black.

Gerson swayed under the onslaught; looking directly at the light of Grillby’s face in the dimness of the flaming-bartender-and-candles-lit bar had left his eye dazzled. “Safe and sound. Playing at the river, like they always do.”

“YOU ABANDONED THEM.”

“They’re smart, good kids. Nothin’ in this town to do them harm anyway. They’ve always been fine on their own, all the times before…” Gerson realized, too late, what he’d let slip.

Staid drew in until their faces were inches apart, Staid’s eye seeming larger than Gerson’s entire face. “YOU’RE DRUNK,” they intoned.

“Um… Only temporarily.”

Staid spun around and flew up the road. Napstablook shimmered into visibility in their wake, giving Gerson a brief, doleful glance before following after their parent.

The chaos at the clothing stand was visible from a distance. Racks were overturned, clothes strewn onto the snow. On the edge of the roof perched an animated white cotton dress shirt, upside-down; its collar moved like a mouth agape and breathing, the buttons on the collar perked back and forth like tiny eyes, the arms arched forward threateningly, and a tie threaded around the collar, its ends floating upwards and jutting like horns.

The shopkeeper crouched on the road, clutching a broom. Her eyes widened at the approach of more ghosts. “I don’t want to own a haunted frippery!” she wailed.

Without a word Staid swooped to the shirt, brushed past it and pulled. Feisttablook slid out of the possession, backwards and grasping. The shirt shuddered, lingered in midair for a moment, and fell to the ground.

Staid pushed Feist before the shopkeeper. “APOLOGIZE.”

The anger that had driven Feist’s destruction had peaked and ebbed, and now collapsed into regret. “I’m s-s-sorry, sorry, sorry…”

Staid’s voice snapped back into its normal timbre as they faced the shopkeeper, “I take responsibility for my child. What can I do to make this right? They’ll clean up the mess they made of your store, do anything else you need…”

The shopkeeper’s lower eyelid twitched at the sight of the two ghosts… Three, now that Napstablook had arrived and was peeking, half-visible, around one of the remaining standing racks. “I don’t want any help from you. Just leave my shop alone.” 

Staid’s eye quivered. “I am so, so sorry.” They fled with both little ghosts in tow; Feist skimming low to the ground and shedding thin tears in shame and anticipation of punishment.

They reached the location where Napstablook had last mentioned seeing Happstablook; the street was empty, but the sound of barking and baying carried from another side street. There was the dogpile of tussling puppies and one ghost.

“HAPPSTABLOOK.”

The playfight went still; ears perked and fur raised at the spooky voice. Then the leader’s hackles settled and he turned to Happy with a grin, half commiseration and half schaudenfreude. “It’s yer mom.”

“Oooooo,” howled the terrier, and the other dogs joined in, a ritual half-support and half-hazing, as Happstablook flew to his family.

Staid didn’t spare the children another word or look, but started back in the direction of the family farm; the three little ghosts trailed after in silence, hurrying to keep up.

When the snail pens came into sight Staid turned around. Their expression was now somehow even more unsettling to the children than the earlier show of authority: tears welled in their eye, and the scar that replaced their other eye twitched. 

“Our reputation is everything. You don’t know how easy it is for people to…” They took a breath to compose themself. “Damage any part of it, and our livelihood is in trouble. This is our brand: Good, wholesome food. The Royal Family satisfied, enjoying what we produce. Helpful, friendly ghosts.” An edge of their earlier anger crept back. “Not going poltergeist on other small businesses.” Feist whimpered. “Not fighting with dogs.”

“Playing with dogs,” Happy shot back. “It was just a game.”

“Somebody could have gotten hurt,” Staid explained with strained patience.

“We were having a good time. Nobody used any magic. There’s no way I could have gotten hurt.”

“What about them? What if one of them was chasing after you and you phased through something and they hit it? What if you became invisible and confused them? What about all of us? What if you made them think that now they can go up to any ghost and start playing rough?”

For a few minutes, even in the middle of the melée, Happstablook… he… had felt a preternatural sense of peace, of being in right orientation with the world. Now that the old order had returned he felt a surge of the feelings that had been imperceptibly but steadily growing in him for some time: unmoored anxiety, dreadful constriction, a frantic drive to do something, anything. He reached for more justifications for his actions, but something else entirely came out.

“I’m sorry my existence is so hard for everyone!” he shouted, and flew away between the snail pens.

Staid went still and expressionless, staring blankly, hanging in the air. 

Feist jerked in shock at Happy’s outburst, and felt a certain guilty but undeniable sense of relief and smugness: it wasn’t me this time, how about that? Looking to Staid for response, finding none, and knowing it didn’t do any good to nudge or talk to them when they got like this, Feist slunk away.

After a few minutes Staid gave a tremor and blinked back to conscious thought. They composed their thoughts and went to search for Happy. He was at the far corner of the west pen, staring blankly at the piles of limp vegetables that they had laid out together earlier. His form tensed as they floated parallel with him. The two ghosts stared into the pen side-by-side.

“I’m sorry,” said Staid.

Happy drew up an inch, betraying his surprise. He didn’t respond.

“I worry about us. You know that. But sometimes I’m living in the past. There was a time when things were bad between ghosts and corporeal monsters. We couldn’t risk causing any insult or injury — there was just too much trouble to risk more. But for the new generation of monsters, and you too, things are changing. If dogs want to play with you, and you want to play with dogs, so what? You shouldn’t stop doing things that are good for you because of my memories.”

Happstablook remained facing into the pen, floating slightly up and down to show he was paying attention. He wasn’t, though. He was wondering how he could explain the thing that had happened inside his soul.

Staid waited. Didn’t hear a response. Continued. “You don’t want to be told what to do anymore. That’s the way it should be. I get it. I’m a little older than you, but we are parts of the same soul, after all.”

Happy turned to look at Stavalblook. Normal Stavalblook. Content Stavalblook. Definition-of-a-ghost Stavalblook. Inwardly he remembered the punishment for acting against the family. We do not hurt ourselves. His soul shrank from the memory of being shunned; of becoming invisible. He wondered how much worse it would be if he told the truth. His soul felt like it was being compressed into a little box could never fit into, but…

… outwardly he smiled with gratitude.

Stavalblook smiled back, completely, erroneously, reassured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay -- it's been a rough week, my beta-reader/partner hasn't had a restful nightmare-free sleep in seven days.
> 
> I'm two chapters deep into drafting section 2 so far, and hope to start getting it up within the next week.
> 
> If you've read this far... a huge THANK YOU!   
> I know I'm about a year late to the Undertale party, but I love these characters so much.


End file.
